


And You Go Free

by orphan_account



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Depression, Even's POV, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, POV Even Bech Næsheim, Post Season 4, References to Depression, The Balloon Squad (SKAM), quality balloon squad group messages, sexual content but it's not too explicit, this is a goddamn rollercoaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:31:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nothing defines Even. Absolutely nothing. And it’s not like he doesn’t have doubts—where maybe everything would be better off if his mind wasn’t a seesaw and his thoughts would slow down and he didn’tfeelso goddamn much—because he did.But he refuses to let life put a label on him. He isallowedto feel the way he feels. Ask anybody else why they were having a good day (or a bad day) and no one would bat an eye. He’s sick of people trying to look after him or take care of him or feelbadfor him.He’s a thinker—a deep thinker, and that scares him sometimes. Getting too inside of his own head is not good for him. He makes up scenarios and fabricates feelings and comes to conclusions—and there’s one he can’t shake. And no one has ever voiced it before, but Even justknows.This isn’t up for debate. He is a burden.So what happens then? When he feels like life would be better for everyone else if he just… started over?This is Even’s shame.





	1. 0–10

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> Work title is from Gabrielle (lol I am a piece of trash). Song titled Du Går Fri.
> 
> I want to just put another general warning that this fic will have many mentions of bipolar disorder, mental illness, and depression. Although not explicitly, and it won't be the focus of every chapter, but I just want to put that out there NOW so every chapter doesn't need a warning. It's just the whole story in general.
> 
> This is for the most part canon compliant, taking place right after season 4. There is one thing later in the plot that I have changed, but it was only ever mentioned as a future plan on screen in season 4, and we all know plans can change.
> 
> I also want to point out that if Even ever got his season (RIP in peace) I don't think it would go this way. It took a lot for me to pinpoint what I thought Even's shame is. And I don't think it's his bipolar disorder. I think his shame is a product of his bipolar disorder—and not even in the way he thinks, but in the way other's treat him, and how he feels about that and himself.
> 
> This is for the most part already written, and I will post the chapters as soon as I have time to edit them. I will at least post every Sunday.
> 
> Alrighty, that's it! Get ready for Even!

Upon first impression, you might think Even is a flaming extrovert. His eyes are always shiny and awake. His charm is through the roof. He can woo anybody in the room.

But in reality, people exhaust Even. It isn’t a façade, so to say, he really does like being around others. Making them laugh. He has this way about him—where small talk is no longer small talk—he knows how to ask intimate questions without seeming intrusive or brooding. He simply just doesn’t like chit chat. He’d rather skip it.

Ask him to go to an afterparty, though, and his answer is usually a polite but resounding _no._ He needs a lot more alone time than others, generally to sort out his thoughts. If you were to ask him a question, don’t be surprised if he sits and thinks for a good 30 seconds. He rarely ever blurts out the first thing he feels. Instead, he casually and leisurely sorts through his ideas, picking every word carefully to make sure they are accurate and meaningful.

He’s a thinker—a deep thinker, and that scares him sometimes. Getting too inside of his own head is not good for him.

However, Even already knows this about himself—probably from all the introspection. He knows his energy stems from alone time. He knows his mind is constantly running: reflecting and imagining and sorting. It makes him an awful candidate for therapy because he gets rather bored. And it’s probably why he doesn’t like it. _Heart homework,_ he calls it. _How do you feel? Why do you think that is? Why do you think you’re here?_

Yet here he is, although it seems a little different this time around. It’s more like… brain homework. He doesn’t know what to make of it quite yet.

A sigh, though, when it proved to just be more of the same. “Why are you here?” His new therapist was squinting over at him—flipping through his records. She had two long pigtail braids that hung in front of her collarbones. She could be 25 or 55. Even couldn’t tell. But, like Even—she seemed to take long pauses before she said anything. Thinking, probably. She seemed a little odd.

“I am bipolar,” Even announced, curious why she was asking when she should be the one to already know. She was literally looking through his file.

She hurriedly made a dozen pencil marks on her clipboard—checking off boxes, it seemed. “Ok, I thought so,” she mumbled.

And Even’s eyebrows went in opposite directions, a little taken aback and a little apprehensive. She didn’t seem to know what she was doing.

“That means we can basically skip all of part one,” she decided, closing her folder with Even’s records and flipping all the papers on her clipboard back to face front—sticking her pen behind her ear clumsily as it fought with the temples of her glasses. “So you accept this, then, your diagnosis?”

Even seemed confused. She picked up on it right away.

“I’m not here to tell you what to feel or even what to do, Even,” she shook her head with a soft smile like she was in on something he wasn’t. “I’m here to help you.” Her mood shifted from friend back to doctor, adjusting her glasses and sitting more upright, flipping her clipboard back to a designated page clumsily. She was all over the place. “It’s often hard for people to recognize what their problems are,” she continued. “The first step is usually just _I need help._ That’s why you’re here. The fact that you have accepted you are bipolar is a tremendous achievement on its own. It is often difficult for people with bipolar disorder to acknowledge their condition. But, since it seems we are past that point, you’ve obviously come here for help.”

Even stared blankly at her. No one had ever talked to him this way before.

“Would you agree with me? That you came here because you need help?”

He thought for a moment and then nodded.

“Do you know with what?”

More thinking, but this time a shake of the head. She was obviously going somewhere with this, and he was curious now.

“Right,” she licked her finger and flipped the page in her notes. “You’re not on any medication?”

“My previous psychiatrist—” Even began but was cut off.

“Your previous psychiatrist was forcibly asked to resign,” she smiled, eyes down on the clipboard. “But I can’t make any recommendations just yet.” She scribbled something down.

Even had a hard time reading her and was wondering if it was part of the session or just part of her personality.

“Even,” she sighed sympathetically. “I want to reiterate that we are not here to do exactly what you’ve don’t before. I am not going to ask you how you feel. I am not going to ask you why you think you feel the way you do. I am not going to ask you about your personal life—although I will get to know all of these things eventually—” she waved a dismissive hand. “I am here to help you scrutinize and analyze your thoughts and get to the bottom of why you think you came here.”

Even nodded, confused but not upset that his talking to listening ratio seemed rather off for a therapy session.

“Before we can do any of that though, you’re going to have some homework. You’re like me—I can tell. A thinker. A writer. An artist. I want you to keep a journal—”

“I already keep a journal,” Even interrupted.

And it almost was like she knew he was going to say this. “This is going to be a very specific journal,” she corrected with a smile. “Here—” she pulled out a piece of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Even. “This is a rough outline of how each entry should go—” she pointed along with her pen upside down as she walked through the points. “You’ll start each entry with a number between 0 and 10, in which 0 represents depressed—although if you were feeling at a 0 I highly doubt you would show up with a journal entry at all, nevertheless show up—5 represents feeling okay, and 10 is equivalent to highly irritable or elevated.”

“Feeling okay?” Even asked, looking for some elaboration.

“I know,” she laughed, “it really isn’t the best explanation. I don’t like to say, ‘think of it as a normal day,’ because everyone’s definition of normal is different, and normal is arbitrary anyway. Think of a 5 as… peaceful. Maybe something bad happened to you that day, or maybe something good, but instead of anxiety at the bad or hopelessly futuristic at the good, you just felt at peace. You lived within the moment. You decided to realize that the bad will pass. You decided to enjoy the good, realizing that that will pass, too. Nothing will be bad or good forever, and you make peace with that.”

Even took back all the doubt and worry he had about her.

“Makes sense?”

“Makes sense,” Even repeated.

“Then, you’ll briefly summarize what you did that day.” She moved her pen down to the next bullet point. “ _I woke up, I ran a few errands—the grocery store, the bank. I walked to work, where I stayed for 6 hours and took customer service calls. I came home to my wife, we made dinner together. We took a walk around the park after dinner. We had sex. I went to a buddy’s house for a few beers and to watch the Real Madrid vs. FC Barcelona game, I went home and slept,_ ” she read off the example. “Something brief like that is fine, but it is important to note the details, even though they might seem awkward and personal,” she circled the sex and the drinking. “The next part,” she moved her pen again, looking up at Even who was paying attention, “is not optional, but is, how you might say… free form. Since you already keep a journal, anything you write in there would be fine. You can write about how your day made you think of something else, a past memory you want to jot down, hell, you can even write a short story, I don’t care,” she smirked. “The most important part is that you do it every day,” she insisted, eyes turning serious. “Without this, our sessions will have nothing to be based on and will essentially be a waste of time.”

Even nodded dryly to insinuate that he understood. “I can do that.” His foot was tapping a little impatiently, and his eyes glanced at the clock behind her. Isak was home now. It was making him excited. 

She noticed and smiled, patting her clipboard assuredly. “I’ll see you next Wednesday.” 

+++

Isak was Even’s better half. He really hadn’t thought about it any other way. They shared the most important things in common—very okay with quiet. Very okay with staying in all night. Very okay with alone time. It made living together so easy. 

But Isak’s greatest strength, Even thought—and which he was unashamedly jealous of, was his genuine and absolute ability to live life one day at a time. Or, one minute at a time. The future wasn’t a fixed destination for Isak. The future was built on all the decisions he was making right now. It was something to discover, not something to be anxious about. In the truest sense, Isak lived in the moment.

Even was the opposite. A dreamer—who loved to peer over the horizon. The future fascinated him and was a driving force to get him out of bed every morning. Was his fate inevitable? He wasn’t sure. Ask Isak, though, and you’d get a no topped with _fate isn’t real, Even_. Even always just nodded. It was like a secret he kept. The idea of fate calmed him down. When the present is too frustrating, too much, visions of the future energize him. A lot of his thoughts began with _wouldn’t it be great if…_ It kept his mind constantly racing. This would be a great strength for anybody but him, whose thoughts often trapped him. Scared him. Drove him over the edge. But the future was often blurry.

These differences didn’t bother Even, though. It kept them balanced. Wouldn’t it be boring if they were too alike?

He was smiling so much to himself on his walk home, strangers passing him on the sidewalk were smiling too. If he had to rate his mood, he might even guess an 8. That thought made him chuckle.

His cheeks were a little red when he stepped through the threshold—half from the heat outside and half from his walk/jog back to the apartment. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t seen Isak all day.

It never really occurred to him how this gap year might go—he made an overarching plan. Work a lot. Save a lot of money. Work on building his portfolio. Look into more schooling—try to stay as close to Isak as possible. This had a lot to do with his futuristic mindset. He could _see_ it. Before graduation, he could close his eyes and see the summer and Isak’s last year at Nissen, and it kind of looked like a stop motion film in his brain. There were no details, though. That’s what he struggled with putting together, so it didn’t really occur to him then that working 5:00 shifts almost every morning made the most sense (and the most tips). So he woke up before Isak every morning, kissing his cheek while he grumpily mumbled something (hopefully something sweet) before he turned over and Even headed out the door.

So pretty much 12 hours (and that only counted the days Isak _didn’t_ work). Almost 12 hours a day they were apart now—their remaining 12 hours consumed by dinner and dishes and homework/portfolio work and, well, sleep. Sleep took up a big chunk of it

“Halla,” Even breathed over a kiss when he found Isak in the main room—if you could call it that. They were pretty much just pressing their smiles together, unable to control the upturn of their lips. Even didn’t even bother to take his shoes off or drop his backpack, still slung over his shoulder. He pulled away to look Isak in the eyes, his thumbs smushed into his cheeks carefully like he was holding the world in his hands. “How was school?” But he didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he kissed him again. 

And he really didn’t mean for it to get out of control, but when Isak rested his hands on his sides, pulling him in a little closer, Even just instinctively opened his mouth to kiss Isak deeply, fingers that were resting on his cheeks now tugging at his hair.

“Clothes,” Isak whispered over a smirk, throwing Even’s beanie off his head and pulling at the shoulders of his open jacket, backpack falling to the floor with it.

With clumsy laughs and a few trips, their shirts were over their heads and their jeans were inside-out on the floor.

After you’ve been with someone—the same someone for a long time—and you’ve had more sex than you can remember, it isn’t always a fully naked, hours of foreplay, multiple orgasms ritual. Sometimes they left their shirts on. Sometimes Even wanted to go down on Isak and that was it. Sometimes they had a quickie before Even left for Kaffebrenneriet or before a party or in the ten minutes Isak sometimes had before school and work.

Right now, though, they had all the time in the world, naked and lazily making out on their unmade bed—Even on top of Isak. Every time Isak reached up to touch him, fingers sneakily drifting from thigh to hip to between his legs, Even would swat his hand away. He had a plan. This was going to take awhile.

“Fine,” Isak panted when their lips broke apart, cocky and impatient, reaching down to touch himself instead—a beautiful sound escaping him right into Even’s mouth as he leaned up for another kiss.

Even couldn’t do it. He broke away—closed his eyes and used every ounce of willpower he had not to look down. He might come on the spot. “You know that drives me wild,” he breathed, eyes fluttering—meeting Isak’s and then drifting down… stopping himself to look back up with a gulp.

“We haven’t had sex in like, four days,” Isak whined, teasing. “I’m impatient.”

“Aren’t you always,” Even snickered, shutting him up with another kiss, mumbling, “I want to take our time,” over Isak’s mouth, but he could feel Isak continue beneath him. Little sounds that were driving him mad. “Stop it,” Even laughed. He had no choice but to look if he wanted to pull Isak’s hand away.

Fuck.

But Isak let him drag both his hands over his head with a shifty, cocky grin, pinning them there and pressed into the bed while Even laid his body flush against him.

And Even usually had a lot of self-control, but not after that. “What would you like?” he asked, breaking away and sticking his own pointer finger in his mouth—a mesmerized Isak below him—before he reached between Isak’s legs all slicked up to tease him and maybe persuade him, because he sure knew what he would like right now. 

“But it’s been awhile,” Isak half moaned, half complained, letting Even slip a finger in anyway while his impatient hand went back to stroking himself.

Isak let out a sound that made Even twitch impatiently. “Lube,” Even demanded, looking towards the dresser that was also their night stand. Isak twisted to reach for it, handing it to Even, who didn’t take it. “Nei,” he laugh-panted, rolling over on his back. “But you have to treat me like a princess.”

Isak smirked triumphantly, slicking up his fingers and trailing kisses down Even’s stomach. He was a multitasker, that’s for sure—one hand and his mouth teasing Even while the finger on the other hand teased him some more. “Princess Vivian?” Isak smiled, but he didn’t let Even get a word out; A long and low and lusty moan as Isak’s finger sunk into him and his mouth sunk down around him.

+++

This was probably wrong, but Even was doing his journal backwards. He started with the last part—just writing:

_Someone once informed me on the theory of parallel universes. Everything that can happen is going to happen—and not just going to happen—it is happening. There are universes out there where everyone still talks like Shakespeare. There are universes out there where there is world peace. There are universes out there where humans might not exist at all. But there are also universes that are just like this one, with one minuscule difference. Maybe the curtains in my room are yellow or something (right now they are white). Obviously, I don’t exist in every one of these universes. The string of events that lead my great great great great grandparents to meet, in order to give birth to my great great great grandparents… you get the idea. It just isn’t feasible. But in this theory, the universes are infinite. So therefore, while I might not exist in every universe, the Even’s that roam them are infinite as well. I still don’t really get it, but that’s just how it is. What keeps me up at night is wondering if all of these Even’s are the same._

His pen hovered, wondering if he should elaborate or if that last sentence was telling enough. He decided to leave it as is. He began on part two, a grin forming over his face.

_I woke up early for work—I’m a barista. I made cappuccinos, lattes, macchiatos, teas, you name it… for about 7 hours. I walked home and ate lunch by myself in my apartment, and then I did some research on how to set up a portfolio._

It had taken him twice as long to write these 3 sentences than it had to write the whole paragraph above it. He wasn’t good at just… _explaining._ For some reason, he analyzed these words for much longer, like they might be more important. There was a structure to them. _I did this, and then this, and then this. In that order._ That was so much harder to think about than just… babbling. He continued:

_That lead me until mid-afternoon, where I walked to my first therapy appointment. After, I walked home. I had sex with my boyfriend._

He felt a little awkward writing that down. It didn’t feel correct. Or valid. Or true. _Had sex with my boyfriend._ He almost scoffed at his own writing. Is that what they had done? Is that what panting each other’s names into their mouths and grasping at each other's hands and _feeling_ each other boiled down to? Even wanted to cross it out. He wanted to write _we made love. We wrote a symphony. We conducted a masterpiece._ But maybe he should keep that all to himself, so he continued:

_I made dinner and ate it with my boyfriend. We had sex again. And again. We went to bed._

He wanted to smile a little. It had been a great day, honestly. But the overwhelming frustration he found soon bubbled over his face, making that impossible. His hand was trembling over the paper where he had absent-mindedly started to write _1_ at the top of the page, hand trailing to follow it with a _0_.

He knew what this looked like.

Even rarely ever pitted himself, but right now he did. Could he not have a good day? Was he not _allowed_ to have a good day? Not allowed to feel a 10? Ask any normal person to rate their day from 1–10 and no one would bat an eye if they said so.

He turned the 1 into a 7 and closed his journal.


	2. Daydream

Even didn’t purposefully have a lot of secrets. Hell, they weren’t even really secrets, just… thoughts he preferred to keep to himself. Like this one.

It was particularly slow at work—just past 11:00. Too late for the morning commuter crowd and too early for the lunch crowd. He wasn’t doing anything more than leaning on the counter, head in his hand propped up by his elbow as he twirled a stir stick in an empty cup. The dishes were done, the cups were stocked, and no customers were in line. Even wasn’t one to stand around and wipe down an already clean counter, _keeping busy_ be damned. And since Even’s mind was always racing, he did what he did best when there was nothing to occupy it: Daydream.

This was a reoccurring daydream, one that had made a nice little nest in his brain over the past year. He felt guilty for thinking about it, but no one had to know, he thought. It wasn’t like he was ever going to _do_ it. It was just nice to think about. Nice to escape for awhile. 

He was imagining himself dropping his apron, calling over his shoulder to his co-worker that he’d be right back. He would waltz out the door. He would hop on the tram and ride it all the way to the airport. He would browse the outbound flights. Maybe Italy? They have great espresso. Thailand sounds interesting. Or even Brazil. He would chalk it up to the cheapest flight, probably—or maybe the most expensive. Hell, he’d probably flip a coin. He’d buy a one-way ticket, shopping for overpriced essentials in the airport terminal while he waited. Not a backpack or a change of clothes or even his phone. A fresh start. Maybe he would even pick a new name. No one would look after him or try to take care of him or feel _bad_ for him.

A little twist of shame that made his stomach sour always accompanied this daydream.

_Isak._

His chest got heavy and the guilt always made him hitch his breath for a moment. Sometimes it didn’t matter how lucky he felt. Sometimes it didn’t matter how in love he was.

 _I don’t deserve him._ This was actually a thought he had voiced before. The one that followed it, though, had stayed behind his lips. _And he would be better off without me._

Even wasn’t blind to the growth he had seen in Isak. Partly because of him? It would be stupid to deny that. The shell Isak had stripped himself from was mainly due to Even, because, well, without him, Isak might still be waiting to come out—to live his life authentically. Even never prided himself on this, though. If it wasn’t Even, it would have been some other boy that brought this out of Isak—this sudden mood swing into a less grumpy, more confident, actually happy guy. It never made Even feel special.

To be honest, he felt like a burden. Nothing about what Isak ever said or did made Even feel like they were going to part ways one day, but that thought hung around in the back of Even’s mind. _He’ll realize what a chore it is to put up with me. I’m like a ticking time bomb. It’s inevitable that he will feel pain at some point because of something I do._ These thoughts ate him alive, and really, he was trying to make peace with them. Trying to live like Isak and enjoy the moment one day at a time. One minute at a time.

But Even just wasn’t like that. He couldn’t think now. Or even one hour from now. Even always thought one day, sometimes one month and sometimes one year ahead. And did he see Isak there? He sure hoped so.

Another strength of Even’s? He could put on a face like nobody’s business, which is what he was doing right now—contemplative (probably just bored to a stranger) eyebrows dancing from stoic and listless to surprised and overjoyed like they were doing the tango backwards, not missing a step.

All of his daydreams disappeared. What was a daydream? Even forgot. How could he even think about anything at all when Isak was now standing in front of him. “Halla,” he sang with sparkly eyes, looking up at Isak as he continued to lean on the counter. He liked this view.

“Halla,” Isak responded with a quirky smile—the one that meant he was up to no good. 

Even liked when Isak visited him at work. He would do it every so often, unannounced, usually ordering a fancy, complicated drink to fuck with him. Even always pretended to be annoyed, but every pretentious order that came through, he always smirked, hoping to turn the cup around and read Isak’s name.

His phone buzzed. He gave Isak a quick _one second_ finger and fished in his pocket, swiping the screen right to his group chat with the boys.

“Did you already make plans this Friday with Jonas and them?” Even turned up to ask Isak, who shook his head and pursed his lips in one of those smile-frowns with lifted eyebrows.

Welp. I guess this this is happening, then.

Even put on his best coercer face, phone still limp in his hand while the other supported his chin. “You think we could host the boys?”

Isak agreed quickly enough, but only on one condition: Jonas could come. Which Even knew meant Mahdi and Magnus were going to come, too, which might possibly mean Vilde would join, which lead to Eva and Noora and Chris and Sana. It was going to be a cramped apartment, that’s for sure.

Isak was still a tiny bit hesitant around the boys, mainly because he had a hard time letting go of the awkwardness that lingered after the apologies from, you know… the fight. Even was really great at pretending it never happened, and so were they. But Isak? Not so much. How did Even know it still bothered him? Isak clung to him. And it really was very subtly, but Even was great at reading Isak, and when they were all together—it was the little things. Isak would brush his fingers over Even’s. He would press their legs together if they were sitting. He would shoot him little smiles in the middle of a conversation. Little subtleties that said _I’m here please give me attention._

Isak also lingered when the boys were filming, even more out of his comfort zone when they were at Elias’s. He usually darted towards the kitchen to hang out with Sana. And it’s not like the boys were being _rude._ Hell, they had even asked Isak on multiple occasions if he wanted to be in their videos—as kind of a “reoccurring guest.” Even always checked up on him, though. In-between segments he would poke his head into the kitchen and see Sana and Isak talking, drinking tea, laughing. He usually never interrupted.

So this made him happy, cramped apartment be damned. They would make it work. I guess when you’re the couple with your own place, it just kind of comes with the territory.

 

They had a pretty good system for last minute cleaning—Isak tackled the kitchen and the entryway while Even made the bed, cleared the clutter of the main room, and made sure the bathroom was presentable—all while a playlist of Isak’s rang through their TV. Right now, it was some sort of pop/hip-hop combo. He pushed their table to the wall to make a little more floor space, because as it turned out, everyone was going to be here.

Which comforted Even, even though he hadn’t technically told the boys yet. Too late now, I guess. It couldn’t be anything more than a surprise at this point. Even put it off in fear Elias might object, but secretly, the more the merrier.

Listen. Even was excited about Yousef coming back, he really was. Things between them were just… unresolved. More so than the other boys, who he had a chance to talk to and see over these last three months. I mean, they had made their apologies and talked things through, _as a group,_ but Even hadn’t been able to sit down one on one with Yousef in the few days that lingered between Eva’s party and him leaving for Turkey.

Their friendship had always been the most strained. It was like everyone had kind of… paired up in the best buddy department back at Bakka. Even and Mikael. Adam and Mutta. Elias and Yousef. And then together they were six. Thinking back, Even couldn’t remember if he had _ever_ had a one on one with Yousef.

His train of though was momentarily interrupted by a mood shift as one particularly upbeat and bass-y song ended and was replaced with some slow notes that broke into a woman humming softly.

Even recognized the song immediately, reaching for the remote as he heard Isak scuffling into the main room—too late to grab it and change the song as Even lifted it up over his head and out of Isak’s reach.

“I knew it,” Even smirked, a flushed and embarrassed Isak looking up at him as he reached helplessly for the remote. “You _do_ like Gabrielle.”

“I don’t know how that song got on here,” Isak defended. “Give me the remote.”

But Even ignored him, slipping it into his back pocket instead while one hand reached over for Isak’s and the other found the small of his back. He started swaying and mouthing the words.

_And you go free_  
Free  
Yes, you go free  
Free 

Isak rolled his eyes, still rooted to the spot, and Even shouldn’t find his stubbornness so endearing, but he did. “Dance with me,” he mumbled—a smile so charming following in it’s wake. He only busted it out when he had to, because it made Isak do whatever he wanted.

And it worked, like usual, as a hesitant and skeptical Isak squeezed their interlocked hands and placed his free one on Even’s shoulder, swaying (although begrudgingly) with him.

“Is this how you’re going to dance at our wedding?” Even asked, mock-offended as Isak was only putting in about 50% effort.

That warranted him a dubious eyebrow raise from Isak, who was a little more vulnerable looking right now than Even imagined. Usually, when out to face the world, Isak put on his armor—hoodie and snapback. It was like his way of saying _don’t fuck with me_. Out in public, with the boys—it was his signature look. But Even loved the Isak he only got to see. Soft curls that framed his face—covering his forehead a little. Totally un-styled. Baggy T-shirt over joggers and mix-matched socks that slid on their hardwood floors.

“We’re getting married?” Isak asked after a pause.

“We are _so_ getting married,” Even mocked.

Isak stopped swaying completely, the reference hitting him in the gut.

“What?” Even asked, his smile falling a little as his sways slowed—pulling Isak in a little closer.

Isak looked nervous. His tongue was jammed into the side of his cheek and he wouldn’t meet Even’s eyes. Even could feel his fingers squirming to unlatch, but he held tight. “It’s just that,” Isak began, “last time you said that… you were…”

“I remember,” Even interrupted, nothing but patience. His reaction must have startled Isak, because now their eyes were locked—Isak’s eyebrows in opposite directions. “I still meant it.”

“Okay,” Isak responded, letting his hands go limp and his eyes flicker down so that Even was doing all the work to hold on to him. It wasn’t one of those _I understand_ okays. It was one of those _let’s just drop it_ okays. 

But that bothered Even. He never blamed Isak for not being able to understand, because fuck, _he_ could barely understand sometimes. Isak wasn’t inside his head, so every once in awhile, Even had to reel himself back and remember Isak didn’t see things the way he did. Think the things he did. Feel the way he felt.

_Only you can feel what you feel._

But damnit, he sure was able to understand.

“You know that when I’m like that, I’m still me, right?”

But before Isak even had time to meet his eyes, there was a knock on the door followed by excited voices they could hear in the hall. 

Even squeezed Isak and pressed a kiss to his forehead before he moved to open the door, too many arms reaching to hug him as Eva, Vilde, Noora, and Chris loudly stepped through the threshold—Magnus, Jonas, and Mahdi on their tails. Their arms were spilling with bottles of wine and a few grocery bags. And boy it was already packed in here.

“Even?” Noora called—already making her way towards the kitchen. “Where are your knives?”

He gave Jonas a clap on the back before he took a side step to follow her, opening the first drawer on the right. “We’ve got a boning knife, a bread knife… carving knife…” Even mumbled as his fingers carefully danced through the drawer, and he made a mental note that this was probably dangerous and he should get a knife block.

“This one looks good,” Noora pointed at the one he just skipped over. He handed it to her with a smirk. “We’re making Sangria,” she sang, waggling her eyebrows before she moved to pull oranges and plums from the grocery bags. “Cutting board?”

Even pulled one from the top of the fridge and handed it to her, looking through the doorway to where Isak was doubled over with laughter—along with everyone else—at a story Mahdi must have told. He was the only one sitting there looking smug.

His face went soft with fondness, but his heart also sank a little. He wondered if it would be like this if he wasn’t here—I mean, obviously it would—Isak was having a great time already and they haven’t as so much looked at each other since everyone stepped in the door. He thought of the conversation they had just moments ago—wondering if all the hurt and confusion Isak ever felt was because of him.

Noora broke his train of thought. “You okay?” She asked, a kind smile turned over her shoulder.

“Ja,” Even squeaked out, turning the charm back on. “Do you need any help?”

“Nei, takk,” she hummed, “but I think someone is knocking on the door. I don’t think they can hear it from out there,” she pointed.

And she was right. Even moved to open the door, Elias, Mutta, Mikael, and Adam toeing off their shoes and slapping hands with the boys and high-fiving the girls.

Elias hung back. “I thought this was just going to be us?” He whispered a little threateningly. 

“Sorry,” Even half-apologized. “Isak had already told the boys they could come over,” he lied. “Which lead to the girls, too.”

Elias looked less than pleased, but made for the main room.

“Wait,” Even grabbed his shoulder. “Where is Yousef?”

Elias was short with him. “Should be coming with Sana.”

This really wasn’t the atmosphere he wanted right now. He made his way back into an empty kitchen, Noora gone. From here, his view into the main room looked like an eerily choreographed photograph, framed by the doorway. Friends laughing and smiling and exchanging jokes—Isak in the center, his hands flailing wildly with a grin to match amidst a conversation with Magnus and Vilde.

Even waited—he timed himself—for two minutes. For two minutes he leaned against the kitchen counter and looked out into the main room. No one met his eyes.

He wondered if left right now, if anyone would even notice.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://fxckxxp.tumblr.com/)


End file.
